


And Thy Soul Shall Find

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, Sun in Shadow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: Closing her eyes, she puts her trembling hand on the panel, and she quietly speaks the word drawn from Thaos’ memory.(The Watcher intends to save the souls of the Hollowborn, but something goes wrong...)





	And Thy Soul Shall Find

**Author's Note:**

> (prompt 41: machine)

Closing her eyes, she puts her trembling hand on the panel. She wishes that... No, time for regrets and guilt will come later, later; now she has to do what needs to be done, while there is still some courage left in her heart. While there is that emptiness, ashes left after a soul burns too bright with too much feelings. A shaky inhale, and she quietly speaks the word drawn from Thaos’ memory.

There is a faint echo that is not a sound but the _lack_ of it, a deep resonating _silence_. The ancient machine groans and churns as brass and copper wheels and cogs start turning. The air trembles, vibrates, shakes, until it seems the whole chamber is quaking. The adra thrums, in her ears, in her veins; the very pulse of the universe beating in her heart, in her soul and _through_ it; too loud, too deep, too... She holds her breath, and the world stills and stops moving.

Inhale. Waves rippling through the adra. She can feel its veins, streams and rivulets and estuaries, down into the well of life and death and _beyond_.

Exhale. Countless sighs echoing her own. Layers of shadows, moving, shimmering; expanding... Shadows; lights. Patterns. Sunlight reflected in deep water.

Stillness; in the air, in her lungs. In her soul. Silence. Voices. Whispers. Frightened, hopeful; tired, so tired... She reaches out and calms them, and realizes it is not _out_ but _in_ , that these sparks she is trying to protect from the wind glow _within her_. Her. Them. Children, watching the world though the Shroud; fading glimpses of past lives, so many, too many...

She opens her eyes but everything is still there – and then it is not, and is again. Abruptly, she turns, and clouds of dust burst up, swept by the hem of her robe – thoughts – _soul_. She tries to find the borders but the soul is vast – souls, _are_ – and, suddenly frightened, she retreats, back, back, taking nervous, hasty steps until she is small once more, in the contours of her body – but it is no longer made of flesh. A familiar shape turned strange, real and yet ghostly, solid but shifting, her and _not her_.

Thaos – the one from that final and _first_ memory – is kneeling on the floor, over a dark-clad corpse of a grey-haired man – of himself. He is laughing; she has never heard a sound so hollow.

“Not what you expected, is it, Watcher?” He looks beaten, exhausted far beyond what a soul can endure, but there is some bitter amusement in his eyes.

She blinks, and the dimensions shift in and out of sight. “How?” she asks quietly, in a voice that is both _less_ and _more_ than hers. But the terror gripping her spirit and muffling her words as if she still had a throat that could constrict – that is human, _her own_. Never before has she thought fear could be comforting. “Why?” She stares at him in confusion. “It... it was a lie? Even so weak, you were able to lie and twist your memory?” It is no accusation; she does not have the strength for it. There is that _power_ thrumming underneath that glow which is her skin now, hers but not just hers – the power of lives, feelings – and she is afraid to use it.

“No, Watcher.” The embers of laughter in his eyes burn down to ash. “It was no lie.” He stares back at her calmly, more used to not having physical form than any other mortal. “A disembodied soul is defenceless against a Watcher’s power.” Slowly, he gets up and straightens. “The command word was correct. But it was devised to direct the soul energy into a... vessel. A small part of that memory you simply missed.”

“What...” She shakes her head, and Thaos’ ghostly hair floats like seaweed caught in a current. “There must be a way to undo this. There has to be...”

“Oh, there is. More than one. Last method was called the Godhammer. And Eora still has two more moons.” His words and tone are cold, his face indifferent, but there is no malice in his eyes. Just a weight settling in the centre of his soul; if it was anyone else, she would have called it sorrow.

That is when she feels the tug, as if something within her pulled a thread. Thaos’ eyes flash and then dim completely. With a sigh that blows out emotion rather than air, he steps closer.

“You won, Watcher.” He gives a short, curt nod; a gesture of both resignation and respect. Then he reaches out and grasps something, and lifts his hand. There is a thin cord of energy laying on his palm, disappearing into the sleeve of his robe – into _him_ – and the other end is only half-formed but it sprouts towards her in curves and swirls. “Here,” Thaos says, offering the thread to her. “It is yours to take.” A corner of his lips crooks up in a mirthless grimace. “Not that we have any choice in this now.”

She looks into his eyes – wells, tunnels, _tombs_ – twin windows into a mausoleum – and the question dies on her lips. No matter how much she want to deny it, she knows what happened; she has seen it in his past.

“But I am still here,” she protests even as the hope within her flares into despair.

“No.” There is something in his gaze that seems almost like pity. “No, you are not,” he says slowly, giving both meanings the time to sink in. “Not quite,” he adds, watching her thoughtfully. “You were not where a vessel should have been. It might be different.”

“Different how?” Panic raises in her in a whirlwind. “What...”

“Watcher.” The word is spoken in a calm, low voice, the same he used to soothe her with in another life, ages ago, but still this tone resonates with the memories caught in the fabric of her soul. “I do not know. It has never been done.” His lips move, as if he was going to say more – _I am sorry_ – he would never – but she has seen that he _remembers_ , carries those images burnt into his awareness with a brand of adra and death – and he recalls their past – and he would never – but he is about to cease existing, and he _knows_ because he had been there – _here_ – and he _understands_. “You will learn.” It is a cold comfort, but it is all he has.

One step, another, and he stops just a few inches from her, takes her hand and wraps his fingers around it, and the thread splits into gossamer and twines itself around her palm, wrist, up her forearm...

“There is an empty domain without a patron,” he says slowly. “One that you should be familiar with.” He does not smile, but the line of his mouth softens, just a little.

Perhaps, in this final moment, there is enough time and space for reconciliation.

“Why?” she asks, perplexed by the fact that, after everything, he simply gives up without a fight.

“You took my life. Then, my soul.” There is something in his voice – a faint patter of melting ice when it reaches the ground. “With it, my burden.” Relief. Gratitude? “Go on, Watcher.” He takes a step back and withdraws his hand, leaving the thread interlaced with her fingers. “What’s done is done.”

Is it, she wonders, is it? If there is no turning back, then she will pick up Eothas’ lantern – will try to – will put her whole soul into it. All those souls – sleeping seeds, forever trapped in frozen ground, never to grow – she will not let it go to waste. Not a single one of them.

Dawn. Rebirth. Redemption. There is power in her, a _flame_ she is still afraid of, worried that it would scorch rather than warm. But fire and the sun at noon are not the only forms of light. A single candle. Sunrise. Enough to pierce the darkness and to thaw winter snow.

She knows very little of the ancient secrets and wisdom; she will need information, help, advice; a guide. And perhaps she, too, could guide in turn.

Gently – tenderly – she touches the thread, unravels it, closes her palm around it and puts her hand on his chest. Uncurls her fingers and presses them against the shadow of Thaos’ vestments, into his very essence; the only holy seal at her disposal.

Maybe it would be more merciful to _take_ ; it would certainly be easier for him. What he yearns for is rest; he does not feel the need to seek absolution. But redemption is justice as well as mercy, and every birth is painful.

There is a distant, muffled heartbeat pulsing underneath her palm. A shuddering first breath that could so easily become the last; the choice is his. Thaos looks into her eyes for a moment – for eternity – and nods. Just once.

And then she is kneeling beside a slowly warming body, watching the wrinkles smooth out; dry, cracked earth touched by rain. No mortal can bind a soul to a dead body – but she is no longer mortal but dawn and spring, and new life.

She looks down at him and smiles softly. “What goddess would I be without a priest?”


End file.
